A Private Revolution
by TutorGirlml
Summary: (I wrote this fic some time back, during a summer hiatus event. The prompt was simply French Revolution. At the time, I just put together what struck me, and though it's short and dubious in its historical accuracy, I have a friend who has asked for a sequel to it for some time, so I'm finally re-posting this, along with the second - and final - part.)
1. Part One

"A Private Revolution"

_(I wrote this fic some time back, during a summer hiatus event. The prompt was simply French Revolution. At the time, I just put together what struck me, and though it's short and dubious in its historical accuracy, I have a friend who has asked for a sequel to it for some time. She isn't on Tumblr, but the sequel is nearly finished and only needs typed up now, so I thought I would post this here ahead of part two, and hope some other shipmates might enjoy.)_

_Part One_

The knock at the door was so soft he almost did not hear it, and Lord Killian Jones tilted his head to listen curiously, unsure if the faint noise had been there at all or if he had imagined someone coming to him in his solitary moment of loneliness and ruin. Yet though the knocking sound was not repeated, he could hear a quiet scuffle as he listened closely, as if someone shy or hesitant to disturb were shuffling their feet just outside his chambers – and with that, the young nobleman felt quiet sure he knew who was waiting for admittance.

"Enter," he called out, pushing confident assurance into his voice, despite the sensation of everything being unmoored, crumbling, trembling at the brink of downfall. He could not let his fear or his uncertainty show – his family name, his noble line must be upheld, regardless of his own personal doubt. It would not do to have some disloyal servant see him quaking in his shoes and to spread that news to the crass, militant rabble in the streets. Though if this was the person he expected, she would never dream of doing any such thing.

The door swung inward by slight degrees, until a flawless, pale and heart-shaped face was revealed, muted only by the glowing halo of flaxen curls piled out of the way atop this angel's head, with tendrils escaping here and there to trail along her neck and shoulders enticingly. The huge door, ornate with whorls and loops of hand wrought carving and adding to the opulent white and gold leaf décor of his personal apartments could not hold a candle to this chambermaid with simple and quiet dignity. It had always been so, ever since their childhood on the estate together when they had laughed and played happily, much less aware of the difference in their stations. Her mother had been his mother's favored ladies' maid, and Emma Swan had been on this estate in his family's employ since birth. It mattered little however that she was a mere housekeeper and assistant to the cook; he had always been in awe of her beauty, the way sunlight caught her hair and lit it aflame, or how the sparkling humor in her verdant green eyes could bring a smile and laughter to his lips no matter what had befallen him. He was tempted even now – as he had been countless times before – to touch an escaped curl of her luxurious mane and twirl it around his finger, to know what those soft strands would feel like against his skin.

"Emma," was all he said aloud, giving a slight nod and beckoning her forward with crooked fingers. "Come in, please."

She curtsied as she had been taught, and moved forward, graceful tread sinking into the plush carpet. Though he had tried as often as he could for years to convince her that such formality was unnecessary, she persisted for some unfathomable reason that remained beyond his grasp. His mother had been dead nearly a decade now – to the fever – even if her loss still ached in his breast, his father had already fled the country as Killian himself had been cautioned and advised to do, and his older brother Liam fought for the crown somewhere, surely trying to protect and keep the peace in the midst of a frightening Revolution. Killian has received no word of his elder sibling, his hero, in nearly two months' time, and the horror and panic at the thought of what might have befallen Liam threatened to climb up his throat and choke him whenever he dwelt upon it too long…

"Milord," Emma's quiet voice – so unique, demure and respectful, but also husky, low, undeniably sensual – interrupted the thoughts that had begun to overwhelm him, and he clenched his fists against his thighs, hoping that his childhood friend, now servant to a decrepit manor falling around both their ears, would not see that he had begun to shake when she continued speaking. "Beg pardon, Monsieur, but do you not mean to depart for the country? It is no longer safe for you here, Sire."

His eyes darted up sharply in order to search hers, their icy blue piercing her; he could tell by the way her perfectly shaped pink lips parted on a startled gasp. "You are the one who should leave, Mademoiselle," he remarked, irked once again that she still refused to drop her guard and address him as someone she actually knew. He cast his eyes back down to study his fine trousers and the elaborate buckles on his shoes – all silly affectations of his class that seemed so pointless now – unable to meet her guileless eyes any longer. "Flee from here, tell no one from whence you came, blend with the oncoming mob and seek their protection from your oppressors. Why do you stay?"

Trembling herself, as if she could barely stand to be so bold, Emma drew closer to him than she had allowed herself since they were fourteen, since before his mother's death and the weight of his position had fully fallen upon his shoulders, when they had been spinning under the open sky in a sunlit field of wildflowers until they had tumbled dizzily to the ground and in a moment of reckless abandon he had pulled her to his side, brushed her hair from her flushed face, leaned over her and kissed her. It had never been repeated, but in unguarded moments Killian could sense that neither of them had forgotten that one perfect kiss. This was one such time; it was clear in Emma's open, pleading gaze as she tentatively reached forward and put her delicate fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers.

"Don't you know, K- Killian?" she whispered, stumbling momentarily over his given name, a familiarity she also had not allowed herself in years. "It is you who keeps me here. You cannot remain to make yourself a sacrifice to these fiends. Mon Dieu! I could not bear it if -"

She broke off suddenly, wrenching her gaze away with a heaving breath, and withdrawing her gentle touch. But Killian pushed forward, emboldened for the first time in what felt like ages. Resolved in an instant, he took her hand in his, his face still burning pleasantly from her touch. The thought that she lingered for him, that she would not abandon him, even for her own safety and a life of freedom, shook Killian to his core. 'Even after all this time,' he realized, so stunned it nearly stole his breath, 'she still feels as I do.' He might not have been willing to flee for the sake of his own hide, but for her he would go to the end of the world itself.

Bringing the back of her hand up to his mouth, Killian placed a fervent kiss to her soft, creamy skin. "Then upon my word, we leave at once. Emma," he savored her name on his tongue like fine wine, "it will be as you wish."

And so, that night, when the violent mob with their torches breached the gates of his chateau, Lord Killian Jones and Emma Swan had already vanished, disappearing as one into the night.


	2. Part Two

_Part Two_

Their flight lasted through the evening hours, as soft dusk lengthened into deep indigo shadows and then turned over to black night, punctuated here and there by what seemed to be large fires in the distance (Killian tried not to place just where) and the occasional frightening roar of a large crowd piercing the night and running their blood cold. Once they had slipped from the grounds of his family's estate, as silent and unheeded as shadows themselves, they dared not stop, uncertain what the nightmare nipping at their heels might bring, but sure it would devour them whole if allowed to catch up. The angry horde that had been gathering when Emma came to rouse him to action would have already torched the Jones family manor no doubt, but how far would they pursue to find the nobility they meant to punish?

Pulling each other onward hand-in-hand, Killian and Emma were both breathing heavily, nearly dead on their feet and hours into the forest after crossing fields, streams and roads of their once-familiar countryside, when they finally stumbled into a small clearing, run off their feet and unable to go any further. Stopping was a terrifying decision; being caught so obviously fleeing the chaos and destruction all around them could be tantamount to death.

Killian had almost resigned himself to that fate as he had sat alone in his apartments at the family villa, knowing the mob was on its way, and that he had perhaps lived far too sheltered and coddled a life, that the universe might well take its due for the ease that he had enjoyed. Once Emma had come to him though, he had been inspired to save his own life. That she would go with him, leaving everything - the only world she had ever known - behind, made him desperate to make it out, to reach safety, if only for her sake. She had to survive. In his life, there had always been her, a light brighter than any of the gold or finery, and though he had not always understood what that meant, he did now. Emma was everything - all he had left - and seeing that she was not hurt and did not pay dearly for standing by his side when all else fell away was the only thing that mattered.

The sound of her dropping heavily to the hard-packed dirt and dry grass under their feet, brought him back sharply from his inner thoughts, alarmed that she didn't move or speak , but merely huddled there silently shaking in cold or fear, he wasn't sure which. "Emma," he gasped, barely retaining enough sense not to cry out in distress, and rushing to her side.

She shook her head, and he could see her try to wet her lips, though both of them were parched dry from exertion and it did little good. Her hand fluttered exasperatedly at her side, as if trying to wave off his anxiety on her behalf, just as she had always put off his help when he wanted to aid her in dusting, washing, or whatever chore she had been assigned in their chateau and she was trying once again to convince him it wasn't his place to clean with the maid, just talk and entertain her, keep her company. She always said that would make the work time hurry by. "I am not hurt, Killian," she managed, her voice still a bit breathless and thin, but the tone of consternation at the second son of the Jones family fussing over her somewhat reassuring and familiar. "I am fine... I promise."

He tilted his head to search her face more closely in the dark, not sure if he should believe her and relent in his concern, or if she were merely being strong for his benefit. Quite spent himself, he only managed to huff, "Are you certain, Swan?"

Her lovely pink lips quirked up at the corners a hint of mischief sparkling in the pale green light of them as she looked back at him, in spite of her exhaustion. "I am, truly. What about you? You'll pardon me for saying, my Lord, but you appear near collapse yourself."

Ducking his head to hide from her all-too-knowing gaze, Killian found his hand trailing up to brush against his earlobe, worrying the skin just behind it in an endearingly awkward gesture he'd had since childhood. Sheepishly he nodded, though not deigning to admit her triumph aloud, and accepted that they were both in as good a shape as could be expected.

He grew a bit thoughtful, as the stiff breeze rushing through the branches overhead began to cool the sweat on both their skin and the chorus of owls, frogs, and crickets began a nighttime symphony. A small part of him wished to take a measure of comfort from the normalcy as it began to erase some of the terror that had drove them onward. Yet, he hardly dared grow complacent, when the young woman at his side had cast her lot in with his own.

Neither spoke for a time, though their harsh painting slowed to steadier breaths and eventually blue eyes met green with tentative momentary relief.

"Shall we stay here for the night?" Emma ventured hopefully, biting her lower lip with pretty white teeth and worrying her hands together in her lap. He could see tremors in her thin frame and cursed himself for a fool at not seeing the chill she must be suffering sooner.

"Aye," he affirmed with a short nod. "Seems as fine a place as any." As he spoke, Killian attempted to subtly unclasp the fine traveling cloak his mother had once gifted him from his shoulders and lay it, along with a comforting arm around Emma's own. Were he too obvious, she would certainly chafe against his hinting at weakness, but he could not stand to see her cold and shivering; not after all she had already sacrificed for him this night.

Emma's eyes cut to him sharply with the action, in spite of his attempted stealth; however, she held her tongue, and after several breathless minutes on his part, leaned into Killian's side. Much relieved, as he too was feeling the night's chill rather more than he cared to admit, Killian pulled her a bit nearer still in his grasp, burrowing his chin against the downy-soft blonde halo of hair at the crown of her head, and closing his eyes for a moment against the dark, disorienting world in which they were set adrift. If nothing else, they still had each other. That thought slightly dulled the chill trembling that had begun to quake through his own veins, though he continued to feel them run through Emma from time to time, and he tried to shield her further in his surrounding embrace in response.

After some time, with their combined body heat thankfully diffusing between them, and the shivers besetting them both subsiding, Killian found the courage to ask Emma at least one of the questions which had haunted him since they'd stolen from his home. "What of your parents, Swan? Do they know where you've gone? They cannot have approved you taking such risk simply to help me… your employer." There was a heavy pause before Killian stumbled over the label to their association, not feeling it quite right, but uncertain what other to apply. He cared for Emma far beyond her station in society, but he would not assume he meant the same to her. Though she had come back to urge him to save himself, to see his own worth through his blame and self-doubt, and prod him into flight, she was so good - loyal and true - that she would quite possibly have done much the same for anyone of her acquaintance.

For her part, his golden-headed Swan looked up at him for some time, her emerald-hued gaze studying him carefully in the bare moonlight, as if trying to decipher whether or not she could say whatever truth was hovering on her tongue. Finally, she drew in a deep, fortifying breath and ever so lightly, still holding his gaze with her own, pulled back from him just enough to raise her delicate hand to his chest, tentatively brushing her fingertips along the open collar of his loosely buttoned (blouse?) under his heavier woolen jacket. Her breathing sped up even as she did so, and the heat that coursed through him at the sensation of her light, curious touch through the dark hair that furred his solid chest effectively drove away any lingering night chill he felt.

"Well," she hedged, eyes dropping from his at last, "Papa did try to forbid it," she gave him a tremulous little half-smile while shaking her head slightly. "He wanted to be sure I was safe with them...but...Mama...she loved your mother so much...and she has always adored you and Liam as well. She - she got him to see that I really had no other choice. I had to come to you, to help if I could… I couldn't let you…" her voice trailed off then, as if the too-terrible alternatives still waiting on the tip of her tongue could not be voiced. Where she had sought out his eyes when their conversation began, Killian now felt keenly how she avoided meeting his gaze. She had told him why back at the chateau, but it was only now, as she struggled in a way that pained him, that Killian dared to believe her previous words.

Still, he had to be sure. "What is it?" he finally urged on a whisper, tilting her face up to search her eyes once more, gentle fingers still cradling her chin. "Someone who…?"

Emma seemed to smile at him with a sort of affection only she could muster, that warmed those dazzling eyes of hers as well as curling her lips and dimpling her cheeks prettily. She gently pulled back from him just slightly, as if needing to gather herself before she went on. When she at last shook her head and blew out a breath, he almost chuckled easily along with her self-deprecating words, "I am not at all sure why I'm the only one baring my soul here, Milord." Mischief flitted across her face along with the mix of embarrassment and amusement which had already been present, but Emma's expression quickly turned serious once more. "I told you, fool that I am, being just a servant girl and all. I couldn't leave someone I care about - someone I love - alone in their misery. The rioters and looters were gathering in the streets. It frightened me, what some of them were planning. I know you feel horribly that some have so little, so much so that you rack yourself with guilt you don't deserve. They were making for the fine estates first, and...I feared if they came for you… that you might not fight back. Living with myself if I had stayed away and you… you were…" Unshed tears beaded her lovely long eyelashes as her words floundered to a halt, and Killian found his breath stolen away as he put his fingers out to cover her trembling lips, soothingly pressing in a gesture that tried to convey he understood. He couldn't yet speak around the lump in his own throat.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could barely even blink, much less give Emma the answer she was obviously waiting on tenterhooks to hear. She had always been a bright spot in his life, even before he knew or understood what that might mean. Even more so after the loss of his beloved mother when so much of the place he had grown up in and the things he had so treasured went dull and grey. But even after he realized what the pull towards her meant, he had never put it into words, never spoken it aloud. She was so fiery and brave, so sparkling, sharp, and charismatic. The world might say that her class made her less than him, but to Killian's mind it was reversed. How could he ever hold the attention and love of an angel like her?

However, as he felt her breathing falter and a tear tremble and finally escape to trail down her cheek, he knew he must speak. Emma attempted to pull away, embarrassed, and he gathered her close again tightly before she could. "Wait, Emma… please…" he begged. She shook her head where she had buried it against his chest, now blatantly refusing to meet his eyes, though he had heard the sniffle she tried valiantly to hide and cursed himself for being its cause.

"You don't understand," he attempted once more, hoping he could forestall her shutting herself off from him after the risk she had taken with her heart as well as her person. He simply had to make her see. "Emma, I feel the same. Surely you must have had some idea. Please believe me. I was merely shocked for a moment. I never thought that you could feel the same."

Her delicate frame stilled in his arms; all fighting against his hold ceased, and big, beguiling green eyes stared back at him, blinking away the tears that had started. The look on her face seemed suddenly so hopeful, so awed, that he could not contain the answering smile that broke across his own face - even if they were freezing, lost, on the run, and their next day no longer a given. "I believed it once," she murmured, her voice low and her fingers, as if finally freed to do so, reaching up to trace along the planes of his face. "But I did not dare hope that it would still be true."

Killian shook his head, stunned, and having to laugh at them both, and how foolish they had been, each devoted to the other, but afraid to let them know. Leaning his head down to rest his forehead against hers, he breathed out in a comforted voice, "Strange as it may seem, my Love, I felt exactly the same."

Emboldened by their mutual confession, he gathered Emma's slight frame to his chest and allowed his lips to sip and taste the sweetness of hers, set alight by the feel of her kiss and of Emma in his arms.

She responded in kind, and the flame growing between them was enough to warm them both through the darkest watches of the night.

Nearly two weeks later, as they stumbled through the gates of the estate where they had learned along the road that French soldiers were sometimes stationed between campaigns, they were ragged, beyond fatigue, and half-starved, but still together and buoyed by the simple twining of their fingers together hand-in-hand. That they had been lucky enough to find the very regiment Killian's long absent elder sibling marched with was beyond their wildest dreams of blessing. Being able to fall into his strong arms; broad-shouldered, warm and steady Liam gathering both of them in his grasp with tears in the corners of his eyes as he happily brought them to the campfire and shared his own rations, was like finding themselves safely home.


End file.
